


A Second Opinion

by oonaseckar



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Haunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edie isn't forgotten, and she isn't gone, either.  Her ghost has a few things to say to Charles, over the years - demands to make, retribution to exact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Second Opinion

_“Don't let my boy send himself to perdition. You can stop this. He listens to you. Won't you stop this?”_

The first time Charles meets Mrs Edie Lehnsherr, Erik's mother, is a very long way from his first time meeting a ghost. That was at age four, or five, he's not quite sure now. It was his first time hearing thoughts: and the ghostly apparition that accompanied them, sitting on the end of his bed and telling him a bedtime story, seemed a natural accompaniment. (A Xavier forebear, that was, as were most of his early companions. A certain Lady Maria, fond, maternal, a notable beauty, an utter snob, proud of the continuance of her line, and utterly indulgent of Charles. She tripped Kurt up on the staircase a time or two. Not to any fatal effect, but she did try. He still sees her around the old place occasionally, though more and more attenuated as the years pass.)

When he first heard the thoughts of the living, at seven or so, it seemed an aberration, and he looked for the transparent form to accompany the _hot loud vivid_ words in his head. When he realised the truth, it seemed so much more disturbing than the other-worldly companions he'd kept company with for so long. But his powers had expanded, and it couldn't be reversed.

Ghosts, they've never bothered him. They do so much less harm than the living.

Edie shows up in the early halcyon days at the mansion, before it all goes to pot and it's _bye-bye_ legs and _bye-bye_ Erik. And though he takes a moment to place this familiar spirit, it clicks, after a second, where he's met her. Inside Erik's head, that is.

“Mrs Lehnsherr,” Charles says, rising for a lady, extending a hand. They're in the library: he's having one last nightcap before bed. How fortunate that Erik has already retired. Some unfortunate betrayal of their guest might have been startled out of him, and it seems unwise.

Edie pays his hand no heed, clearly doesn't care for fragile courtesies. This is urgent business. She beckons him back down, seats herself opposite on the other side of the chess board, and gives him a hard look. There's nothing of the shade or the grave about her. She has less care and flair for the dramatic than most. Thin as a rail, gaunt, her clothes are worse than worn, her stockings darned. Just like this, she looked, in the camps, and Charles has reason to know it.

Perhaps she does have some theatrical flair, then, after all.

“You can stop him. Stop him killing Shaw. You can, and you should. You agree with me, after all.”

And Charles hesitates. Disobliging a lady is always tremendously disagreeable to him. But he isn't going to promise things he can't deliver upon. (He also yearns to pay a little more attention to the social niceties than she's willing to accommodate. There is a lady in his personal quarters, and it goes against the grain, sticks in his craw, not to offer her a drink, refreshment, music, a bed for the night. Depending on age, tastes and mortal status, of course.) 

He isn't going to pretend not to understand her, either. “In essence? Perhaps,” he concedes. “I doubt killing Shaw will give his mind any ease, in the end. But that Shaw deserves to die, I hardly think I can dispute. Most of all,” he says – and god knows it's reluctant enough, heavy enough in his mouth, “I respect Erik's right to decide for himself.”

“Soft,” Edie snaps. She gets up, comes up close, and he thinks she'd hit him if she was corporeal. And then she does hit him. It doesn't land, of course, floats through him, but it's still shocking. He feels the _bzzz_ and the ghostly _brrrr_ of it. Her face is wild, when she brings it close. “You could _make_ him, make him stop, put his crazy dangerous plans away. You could change his mind, Dr Xavier. I've watched you together, I know you. You could. You could re-make his mind.”

It's a bit of a facer, that one. He's never been more grateful for a classical education and some ethical grounding, for having some basic standards, understanding etiquette and Enlightenment values and...

She hits him again. He thinks she's enjoying it, a bit. He draws back. “I'm not going to do that,” he says, stiff, harsh. “As I say... madam. I respect his rights. Including his right to disagree with me, and to act upon it.”

And now her face is sly and hard, and the softness of a mother leeches out of her. Ironically it's exactly that that makes her, suddenly, recognisably _Erik's mother._ “There are other ways of changing his mind. Other than brute force, and dabbling in it. Do you want to know what they are? I could list you one or two that would do the job for sure. They've crossed his mind a time or two, in relation to you specifically. The first one...”

“Madam!” Charles thinks he has a fair idea, of what she means. And he certainly doesn't want to hear about it. Not from Erik's _mother._

He draws himself up stiffly upright, legs trembling a little. He would like Erik to be other than he is, God knows. He would like a lot of things, and what has that to do with anything? “I'm surprised you have any sympathy to spare for Sebastian Schmidt, madam. All things considered.”

She leans back in the chair she inhabits, as if she had weight and muscle and bone to weigh it down, and she scoffs. Very elegantly: Erik's mother was not precisely a beauty, but she had a presence to her, it seems. A formidable one, perhaps. “As if I ask for Schmidt's sake. Don't pretend you're stupid, child.” (How long, since Charles was a child, or felt one even when he was? He might as well be ten years old in blue pyjamas, right now, though. From where does she get that knack?) “My boy is changing, with every step he takes along this road,” she says, more soft. This is the closest her eyes have come to beseeching, instead of to command. “Do you want to consider what he'll be if his route isn't altered?” She reaches out a hand to him. “Alter it. Coax him a little. Promise him whatever you must, and make good on it too.” 

Her eyes, after all, are lovely, haunted, as she lets the lashes fall, and rise again. “Keep him _my boy_ , Dr Xavier. My nice soft mamma's boy. I hardly recognise him already. Don't let him change any further.”

Oh, the temptation is horrible, to promise her things he shouldn't. To use psychic force or unethical seductive influence to alter Erik's mind, heart, anything barring bare reason. “I believe I must bid you good-night, madam,” he says stiffly, his voice thinning and thinning to breaking point. “It pains me to extend so little hospitality to a guest's family. But you have outstayed your welcome.”

And he doesn't need to say it twice. From a deceptive apparently corporeal appearance, perched on the edge of her armchair, she's gone. There's only a whisper in his ear to say _adieu_.

“Do you think you'll regret this, child?” she whispers, from lips that don't exist. “I will. You will. Change your mind, give me my sweet boy back, by hook or crook. Or we can both be sorry, _together_.”

There's a chill whistle of a breeze by his ear. She's gone. He feels her absence now.

He stands in the middle of the library, woozy for a minute, uncertain. Then he picks up his convictions as if they were marbles rolling on the floor. What else has he got in this life?

He dims the lights and takes the stairs to the second floor, not to his own room but to Erik's. And once Erik is woken, he gets a welcome there that's surprised but enthusiastic, when Erik understands what he's there _for_.

It's a shame, to allow his motive for a first approach to be so compromised. But Charles needs to prove something to himself, maybe her too. He gives up everything he has, and Erik takes, hungry. 

“I never thought you would,” he says, wondering, after, drained and relaxed in each other's arms, bundled up in disarrayed covers. “If I'd known I would have done something before now, I would have...” Charles can hardly bear the gentleness of the touch to his face. Straight lust with no mixer, no ice would have been preferable, now.

Charles says nothing, smiles tight up at the dim ceiling, feels how he'll ache everywhere, but most of all heart-sore, tomorrow. He doesn't say a damn thing: not a word about Schmidt, or Edie, or justified assassination or lifelong vendetta or the promise of a slightly-nudged future where they could reconcile retribution with some way to be together.

He extracts no promises, no concessions. He gives it up for free, on principle.

Maybe Edie is right, maybe he'll live to regret it. But at least he's stayed true to himself. At least he's still pure.

xxx

A few years later and the mansion is empty barring a bare-bones contingent of old retainers, keeping it ship-shape till the master and his companions return. Charles does return, plans in place and a few things put right, now they've meddled with the past and the future to a shocking degree.

And heart-sore all over again, of course.

Edie waits until he's alone in the library, evening worn down to guttering candles, once more. Then she sublimes herself out of the air and walks towards him, snaps her fingers, perches on his desk. Her face is calmer than it was at her first visit. She's an old friend, by now. Her cardigan is more worn, than it was then, more than Charles'. Barefoot, and sores on her legs. How she does like to harp on her sufferings, dig at his tender spots, mock his mewling finicky squeamishness. He knows how she thinks he admires his own fine nobility, Narcissus tongue-kissing the mirror. She takes no trouble to understand the wider issues.

“So, the young master returns. How was your trip, my dear?” she asks, equable and inviting him to combat, all in the same words. She doesn't trouble with English, any more. Charles' German has improved a lot: he's had practice.

“Fine,” he says, sullen, and goes for the decanter, utilizes it heavily. His manners with this particular guest may have deteriorated over time, as familiarity has grown. 

“And my boy?” Edie asks, cocking her head at him. “Head-count? Has he overtaken Herr Schmidt, yet?”

It's a shocking triumph to be able to reply, snappish, pettish, “No-one died. Not by Erik's hand.”

But it's an evasion, and Edie's no fool, no more than her son. “So he tried?”

Charles takes a gulp of his drink, and he glares at her. 

Edie nods, stands, and leans down a little, puts a thin worn hand on the arm of his chair. “How does it feel, to be so very righteous, child?” she asks, soft. “How does it suit you now, standing – sometimes – up on that moral high ground, that fine lofty moral stand of yours? Any second thoughts?”

“None,” Charles growls, gritty. The table is wet where he's slapped his drink down, slopped it over.

Edie watches him a moment, and then stands straight, lifts a hand in temporary farewell. “That's all right, child. I can work on that. I can keep you company for a long, long time yet...”

And the words ring in his ear, even as she vanishes.


End file.
